


Higher

by Sarita1046



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Addiction, Alien Biology, Angry Sex, Comfort/Angst, Coming Untouched, Cunnilingus, Dream Sex, F/F, F/M, Grooming, Headcanon, Headcanoning magic as dark matter/energy, Memory Alteration, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shadow Weaver being a parasitic hot mess with the entire royal family, Suicidal Thoughts, Teacher-Student Relationship, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarita1046/pseuds/Sarita1046
Summary: After defecting to the Rebellion, Shadow Weaver reflects on her tumultuous time with the Horde...realizing that neither her vices nor the consequences of her choices can always be swept away by her shadows.
Relationships: Angella/Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra), Glimmer/Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra), Micah/Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 27





	1. Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration: “Winterfall” by Follow the Cipher

Constant fleeting truces and communications amongst Bright Moon, the Fright Zone and Mystacor often evoke Shadow Weaver’s memories of her first days with the Horde.

Of those earlier nights before they made cadets of the war orphans. On the nights when the darkness wrought by the Spell of Obtainment nibbles and gnaws at her guts, lingering on the nerves of her throat, navel and the area between her thighs down to the soles of her feet. She realizes later that it’s more likely these are simply the places where the darkness strikes her senses with the strongest acuity. 

In reality, the shadow tendrils consume every centimeter of her flesh, bathing her very cells and atoms in the enigmatic energy that Norwyn and his Guild only hoped to understand. What they call _magic_ is, as far as they know, a magnetic force unique to nature that technology has just begun to try and replicate. No one truly comprehends nor dictates the laws that govern these forces that inhabit Etheria. 

Thoughts of Norwyn and the Guild tend to lead her thought flow even further into the past. Back to when her former mentor’s kind eyes held more pride and warmth than suspicion.

Indeed, even as she sits in this dank cell surrounded by a neon chartreuse containment barrier whose dim glow alone makes her head throb even harder, the memory of that day on the border of what would become the Crimson Wastes floods forth.

“Does it shine?” the crimson-cheeked man hollers in her face, breath hot across her vision as she blinks. “Look at me, Grey beast!”

Clutching the crystal in her left hand so hard the jagged edges draw languid rivulets of black as he clutches the loose collar of her smock, the Grey Four thanks the Twelve Moons the crystal she has unearthed shines stronger than the reptilian Green Five who is always trying to steal her right to daily ration. Suppressing a cough despite the surrounding dust, she holds out her arm and opens her palm. 

The moment both pairs of eyes still over the smudged crystal, her blood runs cold. All of the shine in Etheria cannot make up for a muddled crystal. And a precious stone tainted with the fluids of a lost Grey count for less than swamp sludge. 

“Is _that_ what I asked for?” sputters the overseer. “Last I remember, I never asked for your _filth _. What are you mining scum trained for, anyway?”__

__By any luck, the words of appeasement remain ready on her tongue. “To discover the treasures of the desert. I will dig—”_ _

__Her sentence breaks to the smack of his hand across her nose, sending her barreling backward and landing with a painful thud to her backside on the cracked red sand. As ever, the serum she and the other Lost Shades receive every morning rushes to replace the anticipated agony with searing pleasure that overcomes the sting of every injury out here on the dunes._ _

__“Say now!” calls another man’s voice, and she turns to follow the sound, resisting the urge to sniffle at the ashen blood that leaks from her nose. “How much?”_ _

__“Huh?” the overseer just stares at the man with horns who stands a safe distance from Four, gaze flitting to the crystal still clutched in her grasp._ _

__“The young one,” the horned man clarifies. “Species and price.”_ _

__“…Unknown and not for sale. None of the Lost Shades are for sale, any fool knows that.”_ _

__“Come now,” says the horned one, and Four notices he stands flanked by several other men and women in robes that look too hot for these dunes. “Everything has a price.”_ _

__“We don’t sell or trade slaves,” the overseer barks, “There’s no price because they’re worth nothing. No one knows or care where they’re from or what they can do aside from dig for gems.”_ _

__“Ah,” the horned man says, “Those gems?”_ _

__Four’s eyes widen as the crystal rises from her sweaty palm into the air, floating right into the stranger’s outstretched hand._ _

__“Hey, give that—” the overseer begins, before the crystal crumbles to dust without so much as a squeeze of the horned man’s fingers._ _

__This time, the overseer’s gaze widens, as he backs off to rejoin the other overseers at the tent near the adjacent cliffside._ _

__Glancing up and squinting to avoid the harsh sunlight, Four’s gaze soon lands on the kind eyes of the horned newcomer._ _

__“Pleasant day,” he greets, helping her to her feet. “I am Norwyn.”_ _

__Several days, including her first proper wash and meal in weeks, introduce Four to a whole new world – the city in the sky, Mystacor._ _

__Nowadays, she estimates about a week passed before she’d learned of the true reason Norwyn had taken her in – diversity of talents. He had basically been scouting Etheria for _unique_ species to test natural talent for the magical arts. _ _

__As luck would have it, magic does not flow easily at all for Four. Whereas her calloused palms have known only the brunt of labor, she struggles to wield the necessary finesse to draw lines straight enough to form a proper sigil. Even the simplest of spells eludes her at first._ _

__Indeed, her first successful spell comes at a time after lights out in the Guild Hall dormitory, when she wakes from a nightmare in the dark and draws the first symbol that comes to mind from days spent pouring over First Year scrolls. Despite shaky fingers, she marvels at the golden symbol that glows before her in mid-air._ _

___Light._ _ _

___Norwyn, though, for all his wise words and encouraging epithets – enjoys his unchallenged status as Head Sorcerer. What’s more, beyond a pride over his well-earned position, the then newly named Light Spinner supposed what bothered her most in her passing years with the Guild had more to do with her mentor’s view of the world. Namely, that he’d done her and many others favors by introducing them to magic._ _ _

___As such, she and the various others he mentored feel a sense of obligation to wield only as Norwyn sees fit. Once the Horde strikes, that inkling that the Guild should be using their magic for defensive purposes rears its head past her capacity to stay silent._ _ _

___For some reason, it is around the Horde’s initial attacks and Norwyn’s subsequent refusal to let the Guild off its backside that she begins to fume at an utterance of his from over two decades prior that she suddenly realizes epitomizes his fixation on conformity:_ _ _

___“Wear this veil to cover your mouth. None at the Guild have fangs, and you’ll want to blend in for your new life.”_ _ _

___It was at that point in her youth that she had realized plants, with their uncanny existence as ever-silent life forms, provided the best company one could hope for. Pretty and without judgment. So long ago even then, and yet now – as she sits in her Horde cell with nausea bubbling up her throat – the rage at both Norwyn and Hordak froth even stronger. At least plenty at the Horde have fangs._ _ _

___Rogelio and Catra certainly never had to hide theirs from her. As much as her cadets got on her last nerve more days than not, hiding a face with no self-inflicted scars has always seemed utterly pointless. What’s more, the way Norwyn had seethed at her that day, as if he’d always expected her to cave to the same addictive tendencies she’d been forced into during slavery, brought angry tears to her eyes. Synthetic endorphins replaced by the power of wielding magical energy. As if said magic is all she's ever had to live for. As if she's no capacity to care for another outside of what advantage they can bring her._ _ _

___Unbidden, bitterness over Micah’s natural inherent magical talent and Catra’s natural agility coupled with intrigue at Adora’s First Ones-imbued, magic-affirmed potential riddle her fitful haze.___

___ _

_____ _

__Perhaps the all-knowing mage had proven correct, after all. Somehow, knowing his lack of faith in her likely played a large part in her downfall makes her consumption of them all _that_ much easier to justify._ _

___Laying on the unforgiving cement floor as she chokes down bile, she has to chuckle when reflections on fangs and hidden faces conjure the memory of the only person since childhood to see the bottom half of her face._ _ _

___The objective of her probationary trial as the Horde’s second-in-command: The Queen of Bright Moon, herself._ _ _


	2. Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration: "The Last of her Kind” by Peter Gundry

Catra keeps dropping by her cell. 

Shadow Weaver has to admit the jolt of excitement she derives from the girl’s consistent visits, however trivial. The obvious need Catra has to keep coming back to goad. At least it means she still cares about Shadow Weaver’s opinion, loathe as she might be to admit it.

It’s these visits that remind Shadow Weaver of the various visits she paid to Norwyn’s office as an adolescent, asking questions she already knew the answer to as well as to gush about her latest progress report. She figures she hadn’t even reached adulthood by the time she realized he’d never really drop the notion of her as the little urchin whom he _rescued_.

“Such luminous green eyes, pale skin. It’s a wonder you survived out in that desert,” he’d said during her final visit until over a decade later when he would summon her for her Guild acceptance notification. “Have you ever wondered about your people, Light Spinner?”

She still recalls the ticking of the massive clock behind his desk, as she nodded her head in silence. 

“Would you like to hear a theory?”

“Yes, Master Norwyn,” she had replied, resisting the urge to shift her stance at the restlessness she feels at his comment about her eyes.

“As you know, magic is harnessed energy. Most of the world beyond Etheria is comprised of this invisible energy. The…elemental ties that certain princesses have to their runestones has always begged the question of how those native to this planet have succeeded in controlling this energy here on the planet. While sorcery teaches those born without natural connections to the energy to wield it, the princesses were not First Ones. In fact, I would say there is reason to believe they were not actually the first to reside on Etheria.”

She remembers cocking her head. “I always figured we all came from somewhere else.”

“Perhaps,” Norwyn nodded. “Though I daresay your people, whoever they were, seemed quite accustomed to living beneath the earth. Now, it’s just a theory, of course, but…there is always the possibility that they were here just as long if not before the First Ones and even driven underground by them. You look like a person, yet your teeth. Well. I won’t presume to theorize on a diet of subterranean vermin, but one rarely can say for certain about these things.”

A cold weight sank in her gut. “I don’t eat vermin, Master Norwyn. Not even in the Crimson Wastes.”

“Of course not, Light Spinner,” he waved her off, “You’re much too lovely for that. You’ve worked hard. The drive you show surpasses that of many of my students.”

“Thank you,” the words tumble from her mouth as if on autopilot, as she tries once again to ignore that frustrating pattern of masked insult followed swiftly by flattery. 

“Just make sure not to let it go to your head.”

She still recalls clear as crystal that wistful smile as she left his office. That was the night she’d started wondering about whether her pointy ears had helped some likely long-dead species to survive in pitch black tunnels beneath the soil.

Still, it’s not long before she uses the last vestiges of her magic to make the trip to Bright Moon that she recalls her previous excursion to the same region long ago.

“Scout out Bright Moon,” Hordak spoke from that ridiculous throne of his while the grotesque little spy of his lurked on one of the rafters as though Shadow Weaver were none the wiser.

“Are we planning to move for new territory?” she asked.

“We first have to see what kind of obstacles we face,” Hordak replied. “They say the immortal creature Queen Angella has the strongest runestone connection. I need you to gauge the energy of that connection.”

“The three infants, the lizard and the stray kitten can’t be left alone for long,” she pointed out regarding the war orphans they’d just taken in.

“Then you’d better get to your task quickly, so they don’t starve.”

Stomach jittery from chancing such a distance apart from the Black Garnet, Shadow Weaver figured she’d make quick work of the journey. Though she had to admit that substituting one insufferable megalomaniac superior for another seemed just her luck.

The moment she transported to the perimeter where the Fright Zone map displayed Bright Moon, she could tell she had reached her destination by how much more radiantly the moons here shone. And the castle up ahead, its main source of power coursing from the startlingly obvious moonstone over one of the bridges…surely, such an obviously placed runestone had to be well guarded.

Casting out her spy tendrils, Shadow Weaver focused all of her attention to search for other signs of life in the immediate area. Plenty of life in the castle, likely mostly guards. Not to mention several horses nearby and an inane number of squirrels scurrying through the treetops of the adjacent forest. 

Initially intrigued by a somewhat familiar signature toward the castle, Shadow Weaver detected the nearest presence not moments before the voice struck her ears – a concerningly delayed reaction on the part of her powers.

“What is that mask all about?”

Turning to face the speaker in a manner that she hoped didn’t relay her surprise, Shadow Weaver surveyed the young woman before her. 

The first trait she registered was height. While the sorceress was accustomed to being among the tallest of people she had encountered, this woman stood tall enough for Shadow Weaver to almost have to raise her gaze. 

_Mustn’t pause for too long, lest you show weakness_.

“The moons are bright tonight, it can be harsh on the eyes.”

“I happen to have come out here for some natural light,” replied the woman, ombre hair reminding Shadow Weaver of the Crimson Waste dunes beneath the pale moonlight. 

Provided the immense rush of energy emanating from this woman, Shadow Weaver had a strong inkling this had to be the famed Queen Angella. Though the energy held enough light to remind her of her days at Mystacor, all negative associations faded to a desire that had the sorceress’s mouth water at the detection of pure magic. Not learned, but _innate_. Almost too pure for the likes of Norwyn or the Horde…

“Long day?” Shadow Weaver decided to adopt the approach of casual conversation, if only to distract herself from her own wayward vices.

“Long year,” Angella sighed, and Shadow Weaver finally took in the simple off-white gown the queen wore. “Do you have children?”

“Five,” the number tumbled from Shadow Weaver’s lips with a normalcy that probably should have bothered her.

Angella’s soft eyes widened. “ _Five_?” she exclaimed. “By the moons, and here I am complaining about one.”

“You find it difficult?” Shadow Weaver hoped to divert the conversation away from herself, remembering that the whole reason she’d come here at the risk of distance from the Garnet was to gain information. Such as the child in question. Future royalty, perhaps.

“Not my child, she is more beautiful than all of our moons combined,” Angela said. “It’s the…well, forgive me, perhaps this is easier discussed with a complete stranger. Anyway, it’s the aftermath, I suppose. But then, surely you understand—”

“My children are adopted,” Shadow Weaver replied, still struggling not to focus on that delectable rush that beckoned her from every atom of the being before her. “Are you in some discomfort?”

Any discernible weakness could be helpful. Though she doubted anything the queen allowed her to know could be used against Bright Moon in any way. The queen’s confidence in her security likely stemmed from a formidable ability to defend herself. 

“A noble act,” Angella nodded before drawing her bottom lip between her teeth in thought. “Birth is…well, it’s not Micah, he’s been nothing short of wonderful. It’s me, I admit. I feel…marred.”

 _Micah_? No, surely it couldn’t be. Though that would explain the familiar presence she had sensed earlier. Nevertheless, while her star pupil had shown nothing short of magical genius, Shadow Weaver had to marvel at the idea of him having married into royalty. Still, that very same genius had her convinced it had to be the same young man.

“Birth is natural,” the sorceress said, taking a few steps toward Angella before halting herself. “One of my children doesn’t even seem able to speak, only growl. You learn to cope. You will heal with time and raise your child how you must.”

“I—” Angella’s voice suddenly seemed near breaking, and Shadow Weaver’s heartbeat sped up in anxiety with the challenge of handling emotions. “My mother and her mother…they all expect our line to be perfect all the time. Flawless, proud, bold. Only the changes in mood, flashes of hot and cold, ruined flesh…forgive me, this is all too much information. I only came out here to get some fresh air.”

Before she could stop herself, Shadow Weaver had closed the distance between them to raise a hand to Angella’s cheek. Already, her shadows had begun responding to her desires, wafting outward from her form to caress the queen around her shoulders and waist. If the ombre-haired woman noticed, she made no comment. She likely figured the sensation for a night breeze. 

Already, Shadow Weaver could feel herself practically salivating at both the raw power as well as the femininity radiating off of this woman. Even back at the Guild, femininity had drawn her in stronger than all else, and…it had been a while. 

“I truly doubt you are marred…well, it seems I know your husband’s name and not yours.”

No reason to stop playing naïve now. 

“…Angella.” She omitted her title. Clever girl. 

Just then, the extra heat of inflammation ebbing from between Angella’s thighs reached Shadow Weaver – coupled with some arousal, not to the sorceress’s surprise. Though it still seemed a stinging discomfort overshadowed the growing throb of intrigue.

“Let’s mend that, shall we?” Shadow Weaver focused on keeping her own voice from faltering, as one of her shadows separated from the larger swirling dark mass to slither up beneath the queen’s gown and past her undergarment to soothe the smarting flesh in a cool embrace.

“You have magic,” Angella stated, not even needing to phrase it as a question as she failed to quell a tremor that wracked her form.

“As do you,” Shadow Weaver could hear the huskiness in her own tone. “Tell me…how did you meet Micah?”

“…We…we met when my mother and I traveled to Mystacor following the death of the late Master Norwyn. He had stepped up as their most powerful sorcerer. I suppose…I suppose we bonded over shared stories. He took an interest in my race and lineage, and I was soon intrigued by his…well, his rather tragic loss of a magic instructor.”

If Shadow Weaver’s arousal weren’t masking her better judgment, she likely would have steered the conversation in a different direction. Still, the thought of this woman and her former student bonding over her own mistake was…more appealing than it likely should have been. 

Already, Angella’s quickening breath alerted Shadow Weaver that the queen’s climax approached. Not unusual, considering how long it had evidently been since she had allowed herself to be touched.

“I still don’t know…your name,” Angella barely managed before she slumped into Shadow Weaver’s arms whose dark shadows caressed her wings – wings? – of their own accord. 

The sorceress had to bite her own lip at the sensation of Angela’s depths caressing her shadow as the queen reached her peak. 

“Unimportant,” Shadow Weaver allowed while straining to keep her voice level despite the sweet pulsating between her own thighs at the intoxicating thrum of energy that flowed through her at the queen's pleasure. 

If Angella had heard the refusal of information, she hardly seemed to care. “May I?”

Logic still too distant to exert much effort in stopping her, the sorceress watched the queen with glazed eyes hidden behind her mask as that rose-colored hair dropped to the height of Shadow Weaver’s own hips. With only a slight pang of guilt on Micah’s behalf, Shadow Weaver cleared the swirling shades from the front area of her robes so Angella could delve beneath the hem of the long skirts with surprising finesse. 

The strength with which the queen gripped her thighs convinced Shadow Weaver that dark magic, as legend held, seemed to truly harbor seductive abilities. Either that or this queen was truly repressed…not that the sorceress was complaining.

The moment she felt her undergarment moved to the side and a deft tongue locate her center, Shadow Weaver couldn’t suppress a deep moan as her hands found the soft tresses of hair before her. In fact, and perhaps embarrassingly, it took no more than two involuntarily thrusts before her own climax washed over her in agonizing bliss that left her limbs quaking and shadows concealing nearly Angella’s entire form. 

However, no sooner had her high dissipated that the continued stroking of the queen’s tongue against that traitorous bundle of nerves alerted Shadow Weaver to her own oversensitivity. Shadows withdrawing on instinct, she gently extricated herself from the queen’s ministrations. 

Opening her mouth to speak, the sorceress stopped short at the sight of Angella’s lips coated in her own black arousal. 

_Exotic, indeed…_ Of all the times for Norwyn’s unnerving utterances to flood her memory.

“If you’re feeling better,” Shadow Weaver marveled at her success in not letting her tone waver as she used a gentle thumb to caress the dark nectar from the queen’s pale mouth, “I must be going.”

As if on cue, tears welled in Angella’s eyes, glistening in the moonlight as she made no move to rise from the grass. “Oh, no…Micah.”

And there was the guilt in full force like a hurtling concrete wall, shattering the bliss of energy she only now realized she had drained from the queen.

“Indeed,” was all Shadow Weaver allowed before the mind wipe practically initiated itself.


	3. Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration: "Ghost in the Rain" by Beast in Black

Tonight, the particularly jarring memory of her first experience with withdrawal plagues her in the dank cell. 

Mere days after Norwyn took her to live on Mystacor, the needles and body aches from the absence of pain serum swooped in. As she hadn’t yet acquired much of a vocabulary beyond platitudes to appease the slavers, it must have taken about two more weeks to articulate to the Headmaster that there had even been a routine serum and how it replaced the pain she and the others experienced from heat exposure and whippings. 

Even now, she must admit for years thereafter, that learning those techniques of channeling anxiety and depressive energy into magic probably counted for the most useful lesson Norwyn ever taught her. Within her first year at Mystacor, the creation of light replaced the call of the serum.

Today, however, as she sits doubled over on the cold floor of her cell…the throbbing headache and dizziness can’t help but bring back memories. Even as she despises the idea of Catra – or any of the children – seeing her in a vulnerable state, she somehow finds herself craving the company of another just to ensure she hasn’t withered away into a roiling mass of parasitic sludge--

“Light Spinner? By the moons, you look _terrible_.”

At the sound of her former title, Shadow Weaver almost manages to suppress the retch that crawls up her throat at the speed with which she whips her head around.

Moments pass before her blurred vision clears to reveal the outline of a man. Not Hordak, she could tell that by the voice alone. No, this one’s voice is smoother, less boisterous…

Forcing herself to draw steady breaths to calm her leaping gut, Shadow Weaver stills as her gaze takes in large dark eyes, thick black hair that touches his shoulders…she thinks again to his use of her other name.

“…Micah?” she manages, barely above a whisper, finally registering how he wears no shirt, the light brown of his toned chest marked with grime. “You…don’t look so riveting yourself.”

Well, if she must go out with a final dream, she supposes her source of guilt as both Light Spinner and Shadow Weaver seems a fitting retribution. A part of her almost regrets that none of this is real – that the Horde has, in fact, succeeded in banishing her former pupil to his death.

“I must have blown up at least a dozen of those massive boulders and ancient pieces of tech junk to finally get here,” he muses, sitting on the floor not half a meter from her, crossing his legs. 

“Impressive,” Shadow Weaver allows, drawing herself upward enough to look him in the eyes. “Forgive me for not being more presentable.”

Now that the neon green of her wrist binds shines off the sweat of his upper body, she wonders at the detail of her muddled psyche. 

Curious dream. Vivid.

“You haven’t been presentable for years, Light Spinner. Or, I’m sorry, I remember you go by _Shadow Weaver_ now. I knew it was you I sensed those days after Glimmer was born.”

Shadow Weaver’s mouth runs dry. Her scouting mission to Bright Moon…

“Nothing to comment? Your magic may have worked on Angella, but I could sense the two of you easily. Did she ask to have her memory erased or did you just make the decision for her? Like you do with everyone?”

“Micah, I…” the sorceress curses her fumbling. “It wasn’t my intention. The Spell of Obtainment is parasitic in nature and very persuasive for any magic user in the vicinity.”

To her surprise, he falls silent, gazing at her with an unreadable expression in those green-reflected dark pools. Her eyes flit to how his bare feet and the hands draped over his knees nearly touch one of her binds.

“Perhaps the real question here is,” she can already feel the magic inside her buzzing with another source close at hand, “why didn’t you stop us that night?”

The moment he rises to his feet, she takes care to appear as collected as possible while scooting backward as far as her binds will allow. The moment he steps over that green line and kneels before her, her heart seems ready to leap into her throat with just as much anticipation as trepidation.

“You enjoyed watching that, didn’t you?” she chances, gaze never leaving his, as she raises a hand to stroke his cheek. “My sweet, innocent Micah—”

She barely bites back a cry, as he snatches her hand in its tracks. Still, the vice grip she expects never comes. 

“You never know when to stop, do you?” His frigid tone strikes the pit of her already roiling belly. “Always trying to get just a little higher? No matter who you drag down with you along the way.”

“How did you find me?” she ventures, making no move to loosen the grasp of his hand around her fingers that he also has yet to break. Might as well see where her imagination takes this.

He sighs, gaze finally faltering. “The night we cast the Spell…some of that magic touched me. Only a morsel. But it was enough that your signature has always…lingered. Especially lately that I've been in your thoughts. Bright Moon is farther, but I can sense my daughter, as well. Fleeting glimpses. Enough to know you hurt her, too.”

At that, indignation gnaws at Shadow Weaver. “I never aimed to hurt Glimmer. It was her attempt to escape that frayed her magic—”

“So, you’re blaming her for trying to escape your clutches?”

“You speak of her as though she is a child—”

“She _is_ a child,” Micah’s voice booms for the first time. “Just as _I_ was a child.”

Shadow Weaver wants to tear out her hair at the first tears to sting her eyes in over two decades. He must have no idea how much time has passed. 

“All you do is take and take…” he seethes.

“You _left_ ,” she manages just before her voice breaks. “I wanted to perform that Spell to save our planet. You knew this. The Guild knew this. But you left me…and I am truly glad that you did. Even after I defected, I had no involvement in your banishment.”

Shadow Weaver expects one of two things to happen at this point. For this figment to fade to black as death consumes her. Or to wake up in a fit of retching, to find Catra gloating or Hordak bellowing. 

She does not expect a very real tear to escape behind her mask, as fingers lace through her own. Only mere seconds pass before the grip becomes bruising, as Micah agilely avoids her binds to hoist himself on top of her.

Trapped beneath his form in a manner that somehow distracts her from the sickness rather than exacerbates it, she complies against the soothing chill of the floor beneath her shoulder blades. 

Her desire thrums so loud across their shared energy that Micah doesn’t even need to ask permission. “And then you left me.” His voice breaks, breaths coming in gasps so ragged he could have just returned from several laps around the Zone’s training ground. The angst and hurt radiates off of him in waves, and her chest tightens like a vice.

“It all seems to have worked out,” she finds she likes submitting for once in her life, watching her former student take what he needs. Her lower belly burns with need, as he pushes up her outer robes, ripping at the skirts beneath. “You snagged yourself an Angel.”

“I’m useless,” he sputters, as he grips her hip with one hand, thrusting the other into her undergarments. “I can’t stay long and can't even make it as far as Bright Moon to see my daughter. I can’t sense Angella...”

“Hers is innate magic,” Shadow Weaver can almost laugh at her own husky tone, “Not for the likes of us sorcerers who have to work for it.”

That’s when he removes the hand at her hip to grasp softly at the collar beneath her throat, as two fingers of his other hand find the apex of her thighs. “Let’s leave the talk of my wife.”

“Tell me - just how long have you dreamed of this, Micah?” she finally voices what she’s been thinking since about the time he arrived, desperate not to buck her hips as he rolls a thumb over her. 

A quiet squelch confirms her as already sodden down there.

“Enough.” Despite the demand, his voice falters as two digits enter her. “It’s a lazy change, you know. Your name. Weaving shadow and spinning light, it’s all the same.”

Having typically taken the overt role in most of her encounters, she cannot help but gasp at the rather foreign, almost painful feeling of invasion and expansion. Only when his fingers curl upward in a manner that brings her back about two decades, does a low moan escape her as she resolves not to ponder his remark on her change of name. 

By now, her eyes have fluttered shut beneath the mask, as she reaches down to bury her fingers in silken black tresses. Just as long as he minds that beard... 

The moment something warm and wet begins flicking at that bundle of nerves above where those fingers work their magic, she cries out. Hopefully, no one can hear her shout in her sleep. 

As soon as the hand at her throat goes slack, she gives into the temptation to open her eyes, seconds before the name _Light Spinner_ vibrates against her core in a strangled moan.

There is Micah. Between her thighs. Brow furrowed, moaning or perhaps even sobbing. Suddenly, she can’t help but think of that reverent gaze from when they trained together all those years ago. Beautiful. How enrapturing he and his angelic wife would look taking turns beneath her—

Shadow Weaver climaxes so hard she swears stars cascade in the darkness behind closed eyelids. 

No more than a few moments pass before Micah works his way back up her exposed abdomen, ghosting feather-light kisses in an agonizing trail along one of the black scars that mar her sensitive flesh. 

Gasping at the sudden withdrawal of his fingers, she almost panics...before allowing him to slip off her mask. It seems a shame that the Spell's preservation of her body over the years failed to prevent the devastating scars...not to mention the stench of filth she has no doubt he detected upon first entering this cell.

Not that Micah seems of a mind to care. She figures Beast Island must have desensitized him.

The shiver that wracks her body as he nibbles on the sensitive shell of her left ear seems closer to a quake, a growl escaping her at the rough grasp of his fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh as his other hand buries itself in the mess of her hair.

When he finally kisses her mouth, smothering both of their lips in that inky nectar of her release, she nearly whimpers in apprehension, raking her nails down his shoulders and nipping at his lower lip with her fangs at the sound of him rummaging with his trousers—

Micah’s hoarse mewl sounds more desperate than pained, as Shadow Weaver feels warmth splash across her belly.

Well. She supposes more than a decade in isolation is…a long time.

The dank space around them settles with the sound of their slowing breath. Micah shifts to the side to rearrange his clothing, as she stares at the concrete ceiling above. She resolves not to watch him leave, righting her robes and slipping her mask back over her face like the shield it is. Let the dream end on an acceptable note. 

“You don’t deserve death, Light Spinner,” comes that level voice, already retreating. “But you have clearly chosen your side. Stay away from my family.”  


Catra’s return rouses Shadow Weaver.

The moment the sorceress opens her eyes and the throbbing in her head returns full force, she idly scratches at what feels like layers of dried sweat caked beneath the front of her robes. If her fever has already grown high enough to make her sweat with such fervor, death must be imminent - even if her body hums with a curious energy as if the Spell has just fed on another's magic... 

Best she not question the reserve that might just be enough to seek out Adora and Angella at Bright Moon. Now, she just needs that Guild badge. She won't waste a chance that will likely be her last.


	4. Agency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Reference to 1) non-con and 2) underage sleepovers - two separate scenarios
> 
> Musical inspiration: "Secret Garden - Adagio" by Rolf Løvland

It isn’t until Shadow Weaver wakes up inside yet another magic barrier that she begins to really question her ability to distinguish reality from hallucinations—

Until the horrendous retching fits strike in front of both Queen Angella and Micah’s sister. She has enough wherewithal to notice the shock on their faces, especially the sister. Yet somehow, she can’t deny the strange relief that comes as the ribbons of shadow fall from her shaking form with every ragged breath. 

Perhaps this is what they mean when they say “sweet release of death”…

Only she can’t be dead yet, or she likely wouldn’t still be tasting the acerbic streams of bile erupting from her empty stomach. 

Adora…she really just wants to see Adora one last time. Suddenly now that Angella has seen her in this state, she realizes any satisfactory reunion is far from the horizon. Adora will do. She remains determined to learn about her child’s newfound power, even if it is the last bit of knowledge before she will likely meet her inevitable demise under this curse.

“She smells horrid,” Castaspella’s voice reaches her ears through the haze of vertigo. 

“Finish the air filter charm, then begin on the truth spell,” comes Angella’s lighter tone, just like the crystal made sound Shadow Weaver remembers. 

Not that the Queen remembers her. 

The voices fade, and the clearer air allows her to breathe a hair easier. Still scratching at that wretched spot on her belly, she glances around. The chamber is empty, fountains streaming at the far end eliciting a calm she hadn’t expected. 

Once satisfied all guards remain outside the doors to this immaculate and ornate prison, she chances a glimpse beneath her robes. What she finds is not sweat, but...flakes of white? As if she has dried—

Nearly tearing the fabric in her haste to replace her gown at the sudden discovery, Shadow Weaver fails to catch the small gasp of surprise that escapes her.

The encounter with Micah…he had truly visited her. Which means he is alive…not that she plans on telling anyone. The queen and former king together again wouldn’t bode well for her survival, should she somehow make it out of this mess.

When Adora heals her, the rush of warmth and energy rocks her very blood, occupying every centimeter of her consciousness. The sensation almost strikes her as the polar opposite to the Spell of Obtainment’s excruciating char that seemed to incinerate her entire being. 

Yet, even after the healing and long overdue bath, she remains scarred and empty. Save for that hope of survival – the same modicum of light to which she’d learned to cling during her transition from slave to sorcerer. 

Tragic how useless she is on her own. She knows she’s a parasite, with or without this curse that she still feels kneading at her insides despite She-Ra’s gifts. 

She’s past dwelling on Catra’s fixation on her, Adora’s moodiness. If the war itself didn’t make things obvious to them, the world is not a nice place. Catra’s insistence that Shadow Weaver _left_ her for Adora when closer attention would have made it obvious the sorceress simply sought to escape the Horde provides even more evidence that the girl only sees what she wants to see.

And yes, Shadow Weaver openly admits – to herself, that is – that she goes wherever the power exists. Because without power, existence can wink out without so much as a warning. 

Which brings her to Queen Glimmer. 

Newly crowned in the wake of the loss of her mother, the hybrid Angel-sorcerer wears the look well. Perhaps the silver lining in all of this is how they all acknowledge that Angella isn’t dead. Not truly. With what little they know of other dimensions, she could even be watching from that other place…

That knowledge gives her hope, even as Glimmer approaches her garden yet again, eyes already glistening despite a neutral expression.

“Are you always here?” she likes to ask, and the sorceress figures the young queen had hoped for a moment to herself. 

They certainly share that in common. Glimmer confiding in her about wanting to involve herself more in the Rebellion comes as a welcome surprise. 

She places another dark rose behind Glimmer’s ear, encouraging this new sense of fortitude and independence. Grey fingertips brush against smoothed ombre locks and across a rose-colored ear lobe. Truly, echoes of that warm calm from the moonstone shared over their connection have remained ever since she held the young queen captive...

“Once again - You must decide what kind of queen you will be. One who sends others to do the dirty work or one who isn't afraid to soil her hands.”

The young girl’s somber expression doesn’t hide her shiver, as a tear escapes at last.

While Glimmer’s coloring undoubtedly comes from her mother, Shadow Weaver doesn’t miss how those large, determined eyes match those of her former pupil. 

She finds the queen’s shaky inhale evokes the memory of the nights she’d spent with Micah back at Mystacor. Encounters she likes to keep packed away – not because she doesn’t wish to recall how he’d helped her avoid unwanted interaction with Norwyn, but simply because remembering any positive exchange with Micah only feels like a rock sinking in her chest. 

“Everyone looks to you with pride, Your Majesty,” she continues, once she thinks Glimmer might be headed out, too melancholy to dabble in any more magic for the day. “Your sorcery is coming along perfectly.”

“Is that what you told my father?”

For a reason she can’t quite fathom, Shadow Weaver shares perhaps the most vulnerable part of her past she has let on since before she can remember.

“Your father showed true genius for magic. However, he was also so much more than that, My Queen. I—don’t mean to overstep boundaries, but…he once overheard shouting between the former Guild headmaster and myself. The headmaster was one who didn’t respect boundaries at all, and…”

She nearly trembles despite the warm breeze wafting through the garden, struggling not to fixate on the memory of Norwyn’s hand gripping her hair as he forced aside the veil that he decreed she wear. She’d only managed to clamber to her feet once Micah’s entrance had distracted Norwyn enough for his restraint spell to drop.

 _Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Light Spinner?_ he’d cooed in a manner that wouldn’t have seemed sinister without the context of her shoved to her knees before him, preparing to use her fangs in the worse fashion imaginable. _Those visits to my office, always seeking approval for the smallest accomplishments. You were nothing before Mystacor, did you really think your Guild admission was based on merit—_

Though the sorceress omits the finer details, Glimmer stands transfixed. She resolves not to dwell on the knowledge that the girl’s father is, in fact, alive.

“Well, Mic—your father interrupted quite loudly,” she continues, “and insisted on staying by my side even more closely thereafter.”

Once again, Shadow Weaver craftily refrains from elaborating upon the scattered nights Micah had shared her bed, with the innocent promise to stay on the lookout for her, keeping at first to the foot of the mattress in a way that still reminds her of how Catra accompanied Adora each night back at the Fright Zone. The raw emotion evoked by the memory triggers a lump in her throat she doesn’t want to acknowledge. 

Contrary to what Norwyn suggested about her fangs unnerving people at Mystacor, her student never blinked twice when she removed the veil for sleep.

In fact, she spent many a night with young Micah in her embrace, at first choosing to look the other way once several months passed and the soft nuzzles turned to tentative kisses along her throat. Harmless, surely hardly different from when she’d huddled with the other children for warmth during frigid nights on the Crimson Wastes.

And unlike she with Norwyn, her pupil clearly desired their time together, eventually asking outright if he could palm her breast and feel below the waistband of her nightclothes. It was _his_ decision to make, and she wouldn’t rob him of that—not when she eventually discovered that perfect rhythm at which to grind against his knuckles through her thin linen pants, rolling her hips in time to his moans barely muffled by the pillow as he worked himself with his other hand.

Brash and restless as her late twenties had proven, she could admit years later that such dalliances proved the only remedy to that inner disquiet. Just as long as he only got up to that sort of thing with her alone. After all, she was his teacher, so surely, a few life lessons in addition to magic couldn’t hurt - especially when gifts involved in drawing spells and... _other_ activities frequently overlapped.

She supposes the night she’d fallen asleep after climaxing around two of his fingers for the first time to later overhear him taking care of matters in the adjoining washroom finally shattered her denial as to what she had gotten herself into with a student – that she’d dismissed two respected fellow female teachers for an eager adolescent. Granted, the constant competition they seemed to garner with her for Norwyn’s favor had always rubbed her the wrong way.

And yet, she despised herself for the thrill brought on by the student-teacher trysts. That notion of someone actually desiring her not because they viewed her as the competition or the poor waif or easy target or exotic relic – but because they found her capable – because they viewed her as _powerful_.

If Norwyn, the other Guild members or even fellow teachers noticed a connection between the two, no one said anything. She’d even broached the topic of the Spell within mere weeks after deciding she couldn’t spend any more nights with Micah. Even after their little reunion in the Horde’s prison, she wonders at how he hadn’t brought up those nights…

Denial is bliss, she supposes.

“Aunt Casta never said anything that awful about the former headmaster,” Glimmer muses, her voice bringing Shadow Weaver back to the present.

“Your aunt Casta couldn’t have known Master Norwyn,” Shadow weaver replies dryly. “But enough talk of the past. I daresay Mystacor has easily seen better days under your father’s family than when I taught there.”

“Dark magic is powerful, isn’t it?” Glimmer wonders aloud. “More than even neutral offensive spells?”

“Dark magic stems more from instinct than method,” the sorceress replies, unable – or unwilling – to stop her hand from rising to stroke lazily at the outer layer of Glimmer’s weave down to her earring. “Once that instinct becomes second nature, you can draw magical energy from your own life force.”

Once again, a subtle tremble ripples across the surface of Glimmer’s flesh, as she averts her gaze. “How do you not drain yourself?”

“Magic is always taxing,” Shadow Weaver drops her hand, as she feels the young queen finger the dark purple rose behind her own ear. “It’s the price we pay for such control.”

“I…” Glimmer falters, eyes flitting from the darkness of the setting moons to finally settle on the unyielding mask of the sorceress before her. “I’ve felt out of control so much lately. Even before Bright Moon really acknowledged the war, it was always like everyone saw me as a child. Now, I’m twenty, and still, no one...”

She trails off before her tone grows shrill, reminiscent of those rapturous mewls she released while ensnared by the Black Garnet. In fact, wouldn’t be surprised if Glimmer views their little chats and lessons as a means of showing the sorceress she now has the formidable strength to shirk further attempts at attack or entrapment. Shadow Weaver also doesn’t miss how, amidst her complaints, she avoids directly mentioning her mother. 

“I’ve not found sheltering to be an effective technique in raising soldiers,” the sorceress allows. “But to each their own.”

“Adora, Bow…they won’t _listen_. About the Heart…the source of Etheria’s native magic. They don’t trust its power against the Horde…”

All at once, Shadow Weaver feels as if she is glancing at a mirror, with Light Spinner staring back in indignance at the Guild’s lack of confidence in her resolve. She suddenly has to wonder if Glimmer is still determined to access the Heart on her own.

Evidently, the talk of both her father and recent loss of her mother prove enough for a single tear to escape down Glimmer’s cheek, which Shadow Weaver brushes away. Half expecting the queen to refuse her hand, she marvels for a moment when her former pupil’s daughter actually grasps her hand as it leaves her face. 

Somehow, she thinks it’s not a mother the young royal needs just now. Rather, she might just be seeking someone who understands the need to take that extra leap.

“Want to see the throne?” Glimmer murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. 

Shadow Weaver’s heart beats so loud in the encroaching darkness, she swears the intoxicating thrum of the Black Garnet has returned to haunt her.

“…Yes, Your Majesty.”

Even as Glimmer’s jarring yet radiant teleportation lands them atop the exterior throne in view of the Moonstone, Shadow Weaver recognizes this as a sign of rebellion on the young queen’s part. And who is she to refuse some assistance?

“It’s beautiful…isn’t it?” Glimmer’s voice rings smooth, almost proud, in the deep blue of night.

Shadow Weaver nods in appreciation of the trailing gold throne glinting in the gentle moonlight. Far below them, thundering falls crash in splendorous calamity. Once again, her chest wells in anticipation at the enhanced power she and Glimmer wield when they join forces.

“Would you like to take your seat as Queen?”

Ombre fingers still grasping Shadow Weaver’s hand, Glimmer pauses for a mere moment – before sitting upon the chaise and nearly dragging the sorceress down with her.

It doesn’t take a sage to see that Glimmer hasn’t much experience in these matters. In fact, this could even be her first time, given the amount of fumbling her fingers manage in palming a breast and rummaging with the front of Shadow Weaver’s robes. 

In the back of her mind, Shadow Weaver assumes this is likely Glimmer’s way of lashing out at Adora. After all, what better form of revenge than fucking the great She-Ra’s abhorrent mother figure atop Bright Moon’s throne?

The moment Glimmer’s fingers grasp at scarred flesh beneath the several layers of robes, Shadow Weaver drops to her knees, determined to make this about the Queen herself. If she can't be of use to anyone else, she can at least do some good for this young, beautiful monarch. Micah's warning hardly matters when his daughter is so wanting...

Not missing how those bronzed thighs waste no time in parting just as Angella’s had years earlier, Shadow Weaver hisses, “Look to the moons, Your Majesty. Don’t look away.”

Once Glimmer glances toward the sky, the sorceress removes her mask, letting it fall to the ground. Glimmer barely has time to let out a gasp before Shadow Weaver casts a swift matter modification spell to open the seam to the queen’s leggings and bury her face between ample thighs, masking that hideous visage from view. 

Releasing a stream of hot breath across an inner thigh, Shadow Weaver can’t suppress excitement at the whine of impatience from the queen, as fingers grip at her collar.

The desperate quiver that accompanies each passing moment of languid kisses approaching that succulent gem shrouded in a soft pink tuft has her more convinced that the archer boy’s finesse hasn’t been put to use in the most ideal manner. A tingle sparks within her own belly, as she lifts the queen’s booted calves to rest atop her cloaked shoulders for desired access.

When Shadow Weaver’s tongue finds those pink depths, already dripping, Glimmer releases a squeal that has the sorceress grasping at her knees in a warning to stay quiet, one hand trailing upward to knead a breast.

She truly has to wonder if Glimmer automatically draws energy from the Moonstone while aroused, because she swears the girl rolls her hips in time with the magic she feels pulsating from the iridescent oval that watches them from a distance.

Eager fingers grab fistfuls of black tresses hard enough to sting Shadow Weaver’s scalp, as she moans in appreciation at the sweet taste and heady scent of Angella and Micah’s child. 

Not more than a minute must have passed of that tongue lavishing its trail from clit to soaked slit that Glimmer’s form begins to quake, breathy moans picking up speed, as Shadow Weaver removes her hand from the queen’s breast to drop beneath fuchsia and black robes, seeking out her own soaked center.

When that warm, moist serpent laps over her other, unexplored opening below, Glimmer releases a hoarse shout loud enough that Shadow Weaver has to catch herself from digging her nails into the supple flesh beneath them in momentary surprise.

Still, the moons will sooner wink out of existence than the sorceress deny the sheer electricity that channels from the Moonstone to Glimmer to Shadow Weaver, culminating in a throbbing release through the young queen’s core. The brilliant tremor ripples like sea waves across Shadow Weaver’s own tongue and lips, as their shared energy pushes the sorceress over the edge into a climax that has her wailing into Glimmer’s folds.

Falling back against her throne, Glimmer catches her breath, as Shadow Weaver tactfully withdraws herself from the queen’s embrace to replace her mask. She doesn’t bother wiping her mouth. Not a chance.

“You really don’t have access to dark magic anymore?” Glimmer’s voice chances after a beat. 

Behind her mask, Shadow Weaver allows a smile, tongue sweeping sweet nectar from her lips and fangs.

While that void promises to creep back in due time, the afterglow should keep it at bay at least long enough to appreciate the glow of the moons upon the ombre beauty before her.

“Magic is magic, My Queen.”


	5. Apex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration: "Reunited" by Trevor Jones

Shadow Weaver has to marvel at the Queen’s energy.

When she’s not demanding the sorceress’s company after dark, she’s barking orders at the guard staff over the most mundane incidents – the latest being a bird that found its way into the palace, interrupting Glimmer while pouring over texts on Etherian planetary magic recommended by Shadow Weaver and provided by Castaspella. 

Shadow Weaver doesn’t delude herself into thinking this is anything more than a young woman blowing off steam. She knows the other princesses, the archer or even Micah could return at any time. And that could very well spell the end for her. 

Perhaps what surprises the sorceress most remains the young royal’s growing knack for mixing business and pleasure. 

“So,” Glimmer’s violet irises falter only just, as she sits beside Shadow Weaver within the shelter of the vapor clouds wafting through the Steam Grotto. “There’s magic out in space, too?”

“The Guild at Mystacor always suspected it,” Shadow Weaver sighs, gloved fingers playing over the floating steam before them. “Hordak’s all but confirmed it. However, it becomes difficult to detect and even more challenging to wield off of a planet’s surface.”

Glimmer glances down at the humid pool below, shimmering surface just visible amidst the steam from the crystals that line the cave ceiling above.

“We’re sure it’s there?” the queen chances the feather-light brush of fingertips against Shadow Weaver’s robe that still has yet to come off since they began these trysts of several weeks.

“We believe it’s what likely makes up most of the universe beyond our world,” the sorceress shifts under that touch, but doesn't move away. "By now, I'd say what we've come to call _magic_ is simply that unseen energy, present on a planet rather than beyond." 

A pause ensues, before the queen speaks up again. “Join me for a dip? You’ll have to remove the robes, though.”

Shadow Weaver stiffens. 

“If you’d…please close your eyes, perhaps…”

“No,” the affirmative tone surprises the sorceress. “Enough is enough. No more hiding. That’s an order.”

Of all the days to have missed the chance to indulge in her sedative tea.

Shadow Weaver goes to rise, when Glimmer catches her wrist. 

“You realize you’re still a prisoner, right?” she hisses, voice closer to syrup than venom. 

Too bad this sort of authority never caught on with Adora, not for lack of Shadow Weaver’s attempts at instilling it in her Force Captain. 

“I’m not in the mood for that,” Glimmer continues, releasing Shadow Weaver to remove her own tunic so she sits in her undergarments. “But I’m done with the secrets. You can’t always be in control. No one ever is.”

For some reason, the words sink like lead in the sorceress’s gut. Once again, knowledge of the king’s survival weighs on her mind, despite the ever-powerful need for survival that she knows isn’t right…and yet can’t bring herself to push aside.

Well. If she can’t bring herself to reveal that Micah is alive, surely she can obey this command from his daughter. 

Glimmer has the grace to glance from Shadow Weaver’s face back toward the steaming pool, as the sorceress begins undoing her own robes. She must admit, the sensation of the muggy air surrounding them helps to soothe her—

The moment the inner layer of dress falls to the ground, firm fingers gripping her arm stop her in her tracks. The hand trails from her elbow to her thigh before abandoning her form. She still has yet to remove her mask.

“It’s like a…a map,” Glimmer’s whisper barely reaches her ears as a black scar along her outer thigh is traced, before the queen’s voice rises. “You’re beautiful.”

All at once, dizziness akin to that of withdrawal washes over Shadow Weaver, as her heart begins to beat faster. As soon as those fingers cup her jawline, she snatches Glimmer’s hand in its path. 

Moons, of all the times for memories of both Norwyn knocking her to the ground as well as the Spell of Obtainment’s inky tendrils latching onto her wrists. Chest still hammering, she doesn’t even realize she’s started hyperventilating until Glimmer speaks again.

“Shadow Weaver, what’s going on? Are you okay?” The question reaches her in a distant echo, as the once calming atmosphere suddenly felt more stifling than a crushing boulder.

No, she’s not a desert urchin, nor a rogue instructor at Mystacor…and yet, she remains a horrific excuse for existence. She’s knocked down children just as the slavers and Norwyn beat her down. Even despite the opportunity to be something so much _more_ , all she does is destroy everything. Everything Micah said was true. People only latch on when they are at their worst…

For Etheria’s sake, Micah can help save their planet and she can’t even open her beastly, mutilated mouth to tell his little girl he’s alive!

But Glimmer is not a child, she is a powerful monarch whose combined lineage both terrifies Shadow Weaver and fills her with pride. Much too pure to be stroking gentle trails along her hideous thighs and belly.

Glimmer and Adora possess power, it’s true – but it’s useful power to save. Not simply for the sake of climbing higher to survive and escape consequences like a coward. Glimmer and Adora can both see beyond themselves, something neither Shadow Weaver nor Catra, as a result, have ever truly managed.

Despite her bare back which Glimmer has begun to rub, a cold sweat erupts on her nape as she struggles to control her breathing.

“Please…Your Majesty…Glimmer,” she catches herself on the brink of a sob, even as the weakness she simply cannot bear to withhold anymore shines forth, “I’ve hurt you, I’ve hurt your father…Please, I need…it’s so empty, please just fill me--”

 _Fill me up_ , she wants to beg. She wants to be taken by force, broken, shattered. This girl and her entire family deserve that at least for what she has done to them. For what she continues to do.

The magical energy emanating from Glimmer shifts from alarm to arousal to intrigue. As much as she wonders if the queen will take her right here – on the stones, in the water…those fingers never leave her back, as the fallen sorceress rocks back and forth, fingertips gripping the pool’s ledge like a lifeline tethering her to reality. 

No lashing out in anger. No fucking another or getting ravished as a distraction. Locked into Glimmer’s gentle touch in a way she never conceived to allow from Catra nor Adora, she’s actually forced to _feel_ the agonizing waves of fear, pain and devastating, self-inflicted loneliness. 

By the time the dizziness begins to subside, Shadow Weaver realizes the mewling echoing throughout the cavern comes from her own lips as exhausting sobs wrack her form. How badly she wants to remove the mask…the yearn for freedom feels strong enough to shatter her very ribs. 

But this isn’t the time, place or audience. 

“I can…I can feel your magic, too,” Glimmer chances after the sorceress's breaths have finally slowed. “You’re strong. We both are. I…just don’t think it’s on the level of She-Ra.”

The mention of Adora settles the remnants of Shadow Weaver’s nerves, forcing her mind into a familiar pattern of rationale, as tear streams dry on her cheeks beneath her mask. “Her magic is simply different. Tech designed to harness native magic. Similar to the children I raised, I…don’t know much about my origins, but…I think Adora’s people, the First Ones…may have not been the first to settle here.”

Glimmer catches on quicker than anticipated, and Shadow Weaver feels grateful to the queen for not inquiring further into her distress. “You mean you think you’re a native Etherian? Mother always felt her people were too, but now that we know more about what's out there, I think a lot of us have likely come from somewhere else. Is that why you’re so interested in the Heart, too?”

At the mention of the Heart, Shadow Weaver wonders for the first time whether the excitement she feels suddenly comes laced with warmth not typically present with the thrill of the next feed. As much as it chews at her guts to admit that horrid goat likely had the right idea all those years ago. Her unique ability to tap into a Runestone may haven’t been all due to diligence, after all.

“I don’t know if it means anything regarding my abilities,” the sorceress admits despite herself. “But I will _not_ watch this planet fall to more invaders.”

When she chances another glance at Glimmer, those violet eyes shine with such wonder that she knows she can’t dare to hope for any further attachments. The emotional strain of inevitable loss due to that sickness of need already shrouds her in an exhaustion from which she seeks nothing less than sweet, final oblivion.

But the young monarch is barrelling forth with her own plans, soon distancing herself as she again grows hopeful about reconciling with her friends. Shadow Weaver realizes she can't really expect anything else, given how she fell to pieces before the girl. So, she decides to simply cut to the chase and set the young sorcerer free of her own accord.

As expected, mentioning the queen’s mother turns out to be the perfect tactic to push away Glimmer. That fine line between mentor and temptation that Shadow Weaver has learned all too well how to tread.

Even as Micah returns and predictably wants nothing to do with her, both aware that those scars on his shoulders from her touch mark the lowest point for him...

Not that it matters for her anymore. There is no longer a place for her people in all of this. Shadow Weaver’s time has long passed, and she will ensure the safety of her home world as her final undertaking.

After all, the planet will stay, the only force that cannot abandon her. There is no pursuit of higher worth imaginable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, then...that was easily the most painful piece I've ever written. I love writing for this character, she is the most compelling I've ever come across, and I thank anyone who's journeyed with me this far. <3


End file.
